Rasasvada
by ibuzoo
Summary: 5 litre Champagne and Vodka bottles are sold over the counter and she watches men and women alike pouring themselves glass after glass, licking it up from tanned abs or the hollow between curved breasts that ablaze in different neon lights from the spotlights. Gracious finger slide a new Cosmo over the counter and she takes it, winks but her eyes rest focus, hawk-like.


**Rasasvada**

**Challenge:** 50 Disney Tomione Prompt Drabble Challenge

**Rating:** M

**Disney Prompt:** Peter Pan

**Tags:** Modern Setting, nightclub, nightmares, drugs, psychotropic drugs, hallucinations, hallucinogens

**Word count:** 4203

**Summary:**

She spots Pansy performing a lap dance on some old bloke while he sticks Benjamin Franklin bills between her flat pinkish tummy and the dark green lingerie that flatters over her most sensitive spot. 5 litre Champagne and Vodka bottles are sold over the counter and she watches men and women alike pouring themselves glass after glass, licking it up from tanned abs or the hollow between curved breasts that ablaze in different neon lights from the spotlights - _crying periwinkle, biting turquoise, bright persian _- while their eyes rest lacklustre,glazed - almost entranced, almost drugged. Gracious finger slide a new Cosmo over the counter and she takes it, winks but her eyes rest focus, hawk-like.

**A/N:** Wow okay, where should I start? I will guarantee any reader of this story that this will be an experience you never had before because it was a challenge for myself, too. This is not your usual Peter Pan story and I admit that i took a lot of liberties to fill this prompt. First of all I want to mention that this is a modern adaption and Peter/Tom is not nice, not at all. Neverland is a nightclub and fairy dust is a hallucinogen that evokes terrible nightmarish trips. I chose to make it in some kind of cult, the children of the stars which is a really important topic in the story. I could have made this even longer and I agree that there could be a second part of the story but for now it'll rest as it is.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**rasasvada**

_(n.) the taste of bliss in the absence of all thoughts_

**ooo**

**{interlude}**

_We are beloved children of the stars- who could dare to defy us?_

**ooo**

**now.**

The black jersey dress fits tight, almost like a second skin and dancing neon lights refract on little crystal sequins that grace her shoulders to the hem and the fabric feels far too expensive, almost blasphemous when it rides up as soon as her hips start to sway in step with the beat of the music, shows a stretch of beautiful tanned legs. She nips at her Cosmopolitan cocktail and leaves red lipstick stains behind while her mouth is flooded with raspberry and gin. The beat drums in a ceaseless rhythm, a thick luscious lullaby that vibrates trough her body and she watches the guests dance, moving to the pulse, laughing, buzzed, mellow. She spots Pansy performing a lap dance on some old bloke while he sticks Benjamin Franklin bills between her flat pinkish tummy and the dark green lingerie that flatters over her most sensitive spot. 5 litre Champagne and Vodka bottles are sold over the counter and she watches men and women alike pouring themselves glass after glass, licking it up from tanned abs or the hollow between curved breasts that ablaze in different neon lights from the spotlights - _crying periwinkle, biting turquoise, bright persian _- while their eyes rest lacklustre, glazed - almost entranced, almost drugged.

"You look lost, dear," a deep rumble resonates behind her and she turns around to see the bar-tender, a dandy with a smirk on full gracious lips and a masculine jaw, clean shaved skin with dark hair. Gracious finger slide a new Cosmo over the counter and she takes it, winks but her eyes rest focus, hawk-like.

**ooo**

**then.**

"I think she's lying," Ron huffs annoyed and puts his feet on the desk, leans back in the cheap office chair that squeaks under his weight

"We cannot say that!", Hermione counters immediately with an audible aggression in the voice and she crosses her arms right before her chest, clenches her jaw when she starts to argue, unyielding, "She's a potential rape victim - we will give her the necessary support she deserves without any trace of prejudices. Has she seen a doctor yet?"

She can see how both of them, Harry and Ron, roll their eyes at her, almost taunting, and Ron finds his voice once more, presses between gritted teeth, "She's a man-eater 'Mione, Lavender talked non-stop about it. Trashy little tart, prowled with a ton of guys - don't you see a pattern here?"

A sudden urge to kill Ron Weasley spreads from the tip of her fingers right up to her brain and she's already snatching forwards, reaching for his neck - Harry stops her however.

**ooo**

**now.**

Usually she keeps her hair in a bun, it's far more handy when it comes to her daily work as a police officer, but today it falls in wavy cascades over her shoulders and it's a miracle indeed how much styling products and mousse can help to smooth brushy wild hair.

She spots Abraxas near a close stand up table with a ravishing dark haired beauty who wears ruby red lipstick with matching high heels and a leather dress that fits straight to a perfect glorious body which puts all the other girls to shame.

_(it's a Malfoy thing she guesses)_

A nagging bite needles on her conscious so she lets her eyes dart across the room once more, nips casually on her Cosmo to look up to the balustrade. The neon headlight illuminates sporadical and she spots Riddle with a glass in his hand - Whiskey probably - while different shades of blue make it hard for her eyes to follow him around. He watches almost predator-like and he vanishes a second later in the dark again.

She needs another drink.

**ooo**

**{interlude}**

_"__My brother told me that the dead appear to us in the stars," Draco murmurs and rolls a cigarette between his fingers, lights it, takes a deep breath to puff little white clouds in the cold air. They both watch as the smoke curls in the darkness, glistens almost and he presses, glassy-eyed and insisted, "It's the only way they can make us see them, a projection beamed from a great distance, like the light that shines at us from a dead star. We're beloved children of the stars - It's a punishment, don't you think so?"_

_She doesn't answer._

**ooo**

**then.**

She puts a steaming cup of white coffee right before Padma's hands and takes the opposing chair. Her voice is calm as a river, soothing, something she learned in police academy years ago and she wonders if Harry and Ron both didn't attend the class - probably not. They're alone in her office and she tries to give her some privacy, emotional stability before she needles, "Can you tell me anything important about last night?"

The indian girl takes a gulp of the coffee and Hermione watches her face with smudged mascara clinging to still wet cheeks, waits until she finally finds her voice and it's a whisper, a whiff as faint that Hermione needs to perk up her ears, "Pansy took me along- I didn't know the club before. It's some kind of select party…"

She takes a breath and breaks, dwells on her words and Hermione sees the way they catch in her throat, how she swallows the tears away and tugs on the sleeves of her jumper to cover dark marks on her hands, and she suddenly shakes her head, as if something just reminds her to stay silent - _keep your mouth shut_ - murmurs that she should have forget about it in the first place, gathers her things and Hermione can do nothing to stop her, almost jumps from her chair, snatches the fabric of her sweater.

"What's the name of the club?," Hermione demands, presses and Padma looks lost, her eyes rooming around, gazing to find something to support on - in the end she chooses Hermione's face and they stare at each other while Hermione can see the fear in her eyes, a horror-filled void that lurks under the surface.

Padma wets her lips and she trembles, really shivers, leans towards Hermione's ear and it gives her chills, a cold spider-like creature that runs over her back when Padma's hoarse caw breezes her pinna, "Neverland."

_Neverland._

**ooo**

**now.**

"Ms. Granger, seems like the stars arranged that we meet again," the warmth of his breath caresses her pinna and she feels goosebumps rising already, all over her lower back and up to her shoulders. She swallows, gulps really and since when did the air run dry? The bass still beats like an endless cadence and her pulse increases, pounds in her veins and she feels dizzy, fervently while she turns around and faces the man. A dark and musky aftershave flatters the air around him and she breathes in, deep and greedy, licks her lips, gasps unconsciously while her upper teeth drag over her lips, her eyelashes flutter and she feels special, unique because he found her between all these people and dancers, all the rapacious drunks. He searched for her.

"I dare say that the stars rest hidden tonight."

A dark smirk appears on his handsome features and it distorts in a cruel mask, an evil spirit as soon as the headlights cast tiffany and palatinate blue shadows trough the gloomy room and his eyes remember her of a pack of wild wolves on a single leash.

"We're all beloved children of the stars - who could dare to defy us?"

Her blood stops.

**ooo**

**{interlude}**

_Her mother always told her Peter Pan is the angel of death that holds kids' hands on their way to heaven, to Neverland. _

_They never grow up. _

_They're dead._

**ooo**

**then.**

She needs five days to find an auspicious lead to the club, follows a hidden back alley past two lounges and it feels almost surreal that they're named _'Second Star to the right'_ and _'Straight until Morning'. _

Neverland however ranges over three storeys and its dark navy coloured veneer looks almost like the starry heaven, protrudes against old brick-covered facades from neighbouring establishments. She approaches dark painted windows and covers her eyes from the sun to have a look at the interior, but unfortunately thick prussian blue drapes hinder any curious eyes to pry.

"Hermione?"

A dark rumble jolts her and she turns, whips her badge out by default and confronts the man - tall, platinum blond hair backcombed and gelled, jaw set, suspicious grey eyes scrutinising her and she huffs, annoyed, shoots back, "Abraxas, I want to talk to the owner."

He gives her a glance once over and she observes the way his jaw works, as if he's debating wether to let her go or kill her in an instance and it sends shivers down her spine, a dark presentiment that keeps the blood boiling under her skin. All resentment is replaced with a smile soon after and his voice sounds like honey, almost too rehearsed, "Of course. This way."

**ooo**

**now.**

Her head drums, a cover of sheet builds on her front, wet drops that catch themselves in the hairline of her thick locks, a beating that rocks her in and out and she sways, feels a hand on her lower back, vigorous with long fingers and they press trough the thin layer of her dress, push her forward and she's sleeping, waking, a slippery game with fluid stage sets and refracted lights in shining shades of blue, in periwinkle, carolina, dodger, brandeis, indigo, a drift, an echo, a voice, _Granger, Granger, Hermione, _everything changes, turns, twists, a voice again, a whisper, hollow, concave, the lights burning, radiating, then dark, spots, the stars, the rhythm, a carnival melody, a hymn, a song, a pendulum, eyes as dark as the abyss, vile, perverse, secrets, he, she, he again, eyes, sharp, intellectual, _beloved children of the stars, beloved children, the stars, the stars_, and she can't breath, can't breath, can't -

**ooo**

**then.**

The room is incredibly gallant, noble almost upscale and it surprises her beyond believe that the interior of the nightclub resembles an upper-class restaurant with satin-covered lounges in Oxford blue which look almost royal when cyan and sky blue headlight cast their rays on it.

She waits and the bar-tender offers her a glass of water and scarpers soon after, leaves her alone with a sparkling clear liquid fizzing right beside her. She doesn't have a lot of time to memorise the room because a man approaches her and Hermione needs to squint several times to detect his shape against the obscurity of the room. He seems to absorb the darkness, almost as if he's part of it - the black inflated suit was no help at all - and the moment he stops before her, takes her hand and gives the most charming smile she ever saw, something cruel reflects in the deadness of his eyes, something atrocious and callous that waits to be unleashed.

"Ms Granger? My name's Tom Marvolo Riddle. How may I help you?"

"Mr. Riddle, I'm here to investigate a rather egregious accusation from one of your former customers." She expects him to have the dignity to be at least a bit surprised but astonishingly he remains calm as a river and smirks a devious smile without raising an eyebrow - it enrages her even more.

She asks her questions, demands an answer but all he does is throwing alliterations and metaphors back to her, half-truths and slick, suave remarks, justifications really and she can't find a way behind his walls, feels the blood boiling under her skin.

She can't win at this game, at _his_ game.

In the end he throws her out of Neverland, brings her to the door in person, and muses, far too amused and glib, his voice a succulent taste in the back of her mind, "We are beloved children of the stars, Ms Granger. Who could dare to defy us?"

**ooo**

**{interlude}**

_It's a chilling night and little droplets of ice catch in his platinum blond hair which look like morning dew on daisies during spring. The smoke of his cigarette collides with his frozen breath and they dance almost magically, an augury perhaps, but she doesn't pay attention, buries herself in her winter coat and puts her hands in long suede gloves._

_"__The sky is so tragically beautiful tonight," Draco murmurs and Hermione stops, watches the way he throws his head back, bares his long slender throat and stares at the dark sky where little freckles of lights shine their bright gaseous glows. He waits, takes another pull on his cigarette and she watches, almost entranced when his fine lips curl around the smoke, puff it out. _

_"__Tremendous beautiful. A graveyard of stars."_

**ooo**

**now.**

-it's a drifting condition and her view grows hazy, reproduces technicolor hallucinations on her inner eyelid while the environment blurs, alters, modifies, shifts until reality disappears and the darkness stretches, stretches, trees grow a thicket with corpses hanging on the branches side by side, faces distorted and blood-soaked and the blue shines appear ludicrous, grotesque, cast glances to hybrids with human bodies and animal heads, zebras, lions, lizards with scales that cover their bodies down to their chests and shoulders while they bite down on each other, bare their teeth, blood on their muzzles and her heart races, beats in the rhythm to the drums which pound through the forest, hazardous, perilous, horrific and it drives the blood up in her veins while she sways, catches herself on someone's shoulders, a death mask, skull mask over his face but his breath is warm, smells of fresh water and something old, something magical like stardust that clings to his pores, and it burns in her lungs, etches, corrodes, shadows dance with each other, float while her mind screams _children of the stars, beloved children of the stars, the stars,_ she shakes furiously and she doesn't know how to stop herself, the drums get louder, hunt her like sharp lances that cut through her skin, a never ceasing beat while her blood coils, pounds in her head violently, cumbersome, sluggish, the darkness feels like a kindred spirit, her feet feel like running but she doesn't move, just sways until her back hits a wall, a breath on her skin, a face on her neck, scratches, bites, teeth that drag over her pulse, bite down, a hand on her thigh, between her legs, a brush on her panty and she turns her head halfway, kisses him full on the mouth, not a chaste kiss, but wet and open and bloodied and bruised, greedy, messy, voluptuous, fingertips inside the edge of her knickers and she doesn't know if his hands belong to a killer or a lover, or if it's the same, if there's even a difference anymore -

**ooo**

**then.**

"So basically you get an E-Mail with a skull symbol and then they implant a chip right in your wrist?"

Incredulously she watches as Draco puts another hand full of salty crisps between his lips, chews on them with a boisterous grating sound before he downs the rest of his soft drink, shakes his head.

"It's not just a skull, it's called the Dark Mark - it's the sign that you're a child of the stars."

She rolls her eyes and taps her pen nervously against the notebook in her lap, waiting for any other indications. Draco throws the bag of crisps - or what remains of them - on the coffee table and brushes little salty crumbs off his fingers before he faces her, places himself comfortable on her old leather couch, "Granger look, Abraxas always says you can't chose them, they chose you. You get an E-Mail telling you place and time. When you get there they implant a little chip in your wrist that works as your ID card. They scan it each time before you step into the club."

As if to prove his point he stretches his arm out and shows her a tiny scar that's almost not visible to the naked eye and she catches his wrist, strokes with her index lightly over it several times.

"How could your brother let you do this?", it's almost embarrassing how strident she worries about it but she doesn't care and Draco shrugs, _bloody shrugs_ and looks disinterested, almost detached.

"It's no big deal, really."

"Why did you do it?"

She feels as if she misses something, something important that she overlooks in the big pattern and Draco watches pensively, almost pondering before he replies, his words chosen carefully.

"They promise dreams but they deliver nightmares."

**ooo**

**now.**

-she gasps, moans and it sounds hollow, echoes with the beat of the drums, the underlying hymn and she feeds her bones, bares her throat when he kisses, bites, sucks at her pulse in a frantic rhythm, it frightens her and it feels glorious nevertheless so she presses her body against him, hands shaking, fingers burying in the expensive fabric of his shirt, she tugs, rips, moans again while neon colours flash brightly before her eyes, she wants this, badly, desperately, fingernails scratching over the skin on his neck and she can hear his roar, a snatch, a wild animal that pushes her up the wall, swallows all her protests and cries with his mouth, tongues dancing, fighting in a duel and she feels young, incredible young, invincible, immortal, almost like flying, high, higher, the sky is almost in reach, throws her head back and stars at the ceiling, the darkness, the night sky, one hand clutches at his back the other stretches out, tries to reach the midnight blue obscurity that opens up, a mouth, a meatus that gobbles her, ingests her, the music gets bump, almost dead until nothing remains than the beat of her own heart, slow, slower and she flies, higher, closes her eyes and breathes out, darkness, darkness, darkness -

**ooo**

**then.**

It's a cold saturday night with thick clouds that obstruct any glance at the stars and she hurries past the nightclub, ignores the bouncer at the front door with tattoos going up and down on his large trained upper arms who scans the wrists of queued up people - all of them dressed up in some grossly overpriced brand fashion with neon and leopard prints or sequins - and sidles backwards in an alley, approaches the delivery entrance with noiseless steps on Louboutin heels.

She opens the black varnish clutch that completes her outfit for the night and takes a small red penknife out with a picklock hidden between two sheaths, crouches down and starts to turn the tools.

It takes some time until she hears the familiar click of a lock that opens and she hurries in before the rain that BBC ONE announced hours ago starts to pour on her and drenches her to the bones.

She's met with utter darkness.

**ooo**

**{interlude}**

_The definition of darkness is the absence of light; you cannot see darkness and neither can you feel it - darkness cannot be explained, cannot be limited and it comes as soon as everything else has gone._

_Darkness is nothing._

_Darkness is everything._

**ooo**

**now.**

A sudden jerk rips her out of the darkness and she sits wide awake on a bed, heart beating with the rapidness of a machine-gun and it pounds rigid in her head, almost painfully. Her breath escapes frenetical and she pulls the white sheet of linen up to her chin, covers her body that's obviously dressed in an old ivory sleeping shirt, comfortable and worn out on the edges with a washed out print of the name of the university she attended, as well as one of her lighter grey sweatpants she sometimes wears during winter, especially when nights are as cold as in London. She needs a moment to adjust herself to the light that floods trough the huge windows, shields her eyes with her hand and looks around almost haunted, chivvied like a wounded, disoriented animal after a long and enduring hunt and she feels a strange sting of nostalgia and remembrance pushing on her mind, a nagging feeling that everything feels extremely familiar, intimate - _home_.

She's home.

She flattens her hand over the linen covers and smells the fresh scent of detergent that tickles in her nose. It does nothing to soother her headache however so she leans back against the bed head and closes her eyes. Horrific memories float trough her conscious but she can't work them out properly, it's almost as if she watches them trough a thick alabaster glass - she wonders if all of them were a mere joke, a delusion and nothing more.

Light steps squeak on the wooden floor of her flat and they make her jump, eyes wide, alert and astonishment accompanies her voice when she asks, intrigued, "Draco?"

He approaches her with a steaming mug that fills the room with a glorious scent - cinnamon, orange blossoms, honey - and she sits up, takes it greedily because suddenly she realises just how dry her throat really feels. Amazingly enough he snorts and nods at her wrist, murmurs, "You couldn't let it drop Granger, huh?"

She follows his gaze and notices the white bandage, furrows her brows, "What happened?"

"You lost control Ms Granger," another voice blends in and his steps are far more trenchant than Draco's, reverberate on the walls and floating laminate until he stops right before her bed. Riddle glances at Draco and Hermione is not quite sure what he sees but soon after Draco leaves the room without another glance back and Tom takes a breath, braces himself on the rod of Hermione's bed. They both wait until the steps fade and her heart beats faster while she feels her rage coming up again, pushing at her inner manners until she spats, accusing, "What did you do to me?!"

There's an amused glimmer behind grey eyes and they suddenly remind her of wolves again - a pack of wolves on a single leash whispers her mind - and she stops, bites on her lips until she tastes blood but Riddle smirks, clever and shark-like, "Me? I can assure you darling that I did nothing to harm you. The idea of losing control is one that scares controlled people such as ourselves more than anything, don't you agree?"

She swallows, gulps down the faint layer of copper that rests on her tongue and she doubles her fists around the sheet, clenches her teeth and presses out, almost hisses, "I'll turn you in."

"And who should believe you? The police president? The Crown prosecutor? Judge Lestrange? They were all present yesterday, Hermione - all of them and they saw that you're no saint. You had no moderation, just exuberance."

He laughs now and the smirk feels gibing like needles that press trough her guts and make it hard to breathe, to live. She feels the badgering hyperventilation that builds in her lungs, in her stomach because this can't be, he can't win, _he cannot_ and she runs her hands trough her hair, feels a sting on her wrist and realisation dawns on her, the hallucinations, the illusions, the wrist, the pain, the bandage - he drugged her, the bastard drugged her and implanted the chip into her, the Dark Mark, she's marked, she's _his._

"Yes," he growls and it sounds like a declaration and a promise at once, "You're mine, my treasure, my hoard, I'll pore over you and I will keep you." He takes a breath and she sees the cruelty that lies behind the mask _(a death mask, skull mask flashes in her mind)_ and he laughs whispers, "You're a child of the stars now, Hermione."

"Rest. We'll talk later," he turns around and his coat appears wide and dark, almost like an abyss. Her pulse beats in a frantic rhythm and she tries to jump up, run after him but her body won't listen, stops, while she watches him disappear.

The clock on the wall resounds loud, almost deriding and she wishes she could neutralise it, shut it off for good, switch off the muffled voices out of her kitchen too, silence them, _kill them._

She turns her head sideways and looks at the poor reflection of herself with bags under her eyes, wild bushy hair that graces her head and she's pale, almost alabaster _(almost like a star)_, with dark bruises on her neck, her collarbone, lovebites and scratches which contrast red and purple against the bright white of her skin, little nebulas and she twitches, feels the aftermath of her trip running trough her veins because the girl in the mirror speaks, whispers, sings.

_We're beloved children of the stars, who could dare to defy us?_

_We're beloved children of the stars, who could dare to defy us?_

_We're beloved children of the stars, who could dare to defy us?_

She closes her eyes and sleeps.

**ooo**

**{interlude}**

_No one told her that Peter Pan deals in dreams._

_She had to learn it the hard way._


End file.
